Peace on Earth
by Sophia Hawkins
Summary: Oneshot. Christmas Eve over the years and what it means to John 'Hannibal' Smith.


Peace on Earth

Twas the night before Christmas and 8-year-old John Smith was quietly trying to open the door to the oven to see if the bird cooking inside was starting to smell yet. The heat hit his face and he closed his eyes against it, but he inhaled sharply and felt something in him deflate like an old balloon, no smell, not yet. Rats, it wouldn't be done early.

"Johnny you get away from that oven and get on to bed before I tan your hide," he heard his mother scold as she stepped into the kitchen.

The blonde haired boy ran past his mother and into the living room where an old roll-a-way bed had been set up for him near the fireplace, aside from the oven, this was the warmest place in the house tonight. John jumped on the foot of the bed and crawled under the blanket, but his mother was right behind him and it didn't escape her that she still had a perfect target sticking out from under the covers and she gave her son one good smack to his pajama-clad backside.

"Yeouch!" the boy let out a startled yelp and fully burrowed under the covers, only to resurface at the head of the bed. But his mother was there, eyeballing him and waving a familiar threatening finger at him.

"And you stay away from the fruitcake, that's for tomorrow," she told him.

"I know, Ma," he replied.

"And stay _out_ of your presents," she warned him.

John looked over to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Ooh his fingers were just itching to start _ripping_ into the presents, he had a lot of guesses of what they were, but he knew he had to wait. This was _always_ the longest night of the year. And the kick of it all was he knew that those weren't _all_ the presents he was going to get. Santa Claus always brought the ones that were too big to wrap.

"_What_," his mother wanted to know, "Is going through your evil little mind right now, Johnny?"

Feeling very sure of himself he told his mother, "This year I'm going to stay up all night and see Santa come in."

"Of _course_ you are," his mother responded in the tone he knew he wasn't supposed to know was her patronizing him.

He said the same thing every Christmas Eve and every Christmas Eve he always fell asleep before Santa Claus ever came in. This year would be different from previous years. Their house was an old house, it was drafty all over in winter, and the heat was always going out. As far back as he could remember he always spent Christmas Eve night in between his parents in their bed, it was the only way they all stayed warm throughout the night. This year his parents had decided he could sleep in the living room by himself to try staying up.

Christmas was a wonderful time. Kids weren't really supposed to know about money since they usually didn't get paid for all the work they did, but John knew that his family wasn't anywhere near rich. Without fail, December was always a tight month. For a couple weeks up till Christmas, meals were often meager, the house would be cold more times than not; and then like clockwork, by Christmas Eve night his father brought home a large bird they'd have for dinner the next day, his mother had made her traditional fruitcake that they'd eat the next morning, and in the morning when he woke up there'd be large crates of fruit on the kitchen table and a big jar of Christmas candies, and on the inn table in the living room there'd always be big platters of nuts, a box of chocolates, and a bottle of wine that they all had a drink from, himself included, though it didn't taste very good.

"Mom," he looked up to his mother as she went about tucking him in, trying to make it impossible for him to wriggle his way out, "Is Dad Santa Claus?"

"Now _where_ did you get an idea like that?" she asked.

"Well how come he's always gone late on Christmas Eve?" John asked.

"Because he has to work, you know that," his mother replied as she fluffed the pillow under his head, "He gets home when he's done working, as he always does. _Think_ about it, Johnny, how could your father _possibly_ sneak out of bed in the night with you next to him without you knowing?"

Well, she had a good point. She made sure he was tucked in extra tight and then she picked up an old teddy bear of his and laid it down beside him on the bed. He turned away from it and instead focused on the fire burning brightly in the fireplace, and at the tree in the corner, and how the decorations on it shone in the light.

He felt his mom's hand ruffling through his hair and then she asked him as she sat down beside the bed, "You want me to read to you?"

He nodded tiredly, he'd just rest for now until Mom went to bed, and then he'd stay up all night and he'd catch Santa Claus coming in the house. He continued to watch the fire as he heard his mom pick up a book and listened to her start reading L. Frank Baum's The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus.

"Have you heard of the great Forest of Burzee?" she read, "Nurse used to sing of it when I was a child…"

He listened but he didn't really pay attention, he tied to watch the fire burn steadily but his eyelids felt heavy and he found himself keeping them closed longer each time. The last thing he could consciously hear was his mother's voice reading, "Civilization has never yet reached Burzee. Will it ever, I wonder?"

* * *

Christmas Eve three years later found 11-year-old John Smith once again on the roll-a-way bed by the fireplace in his home. This time however, he was none too merry because he was sick with a cold. The worst of it had been a few days before but he still resented being sick for Christmas. Three days in a row he'd been stricken with chills like he'd never known before, and tonight his mother made sure the fire was built tall and strong, and that John was bundled up in a few extra blankets than usual. She was determined to make sure he was plenty warm tonight.

Miserable though he was, he had to admit this _did_ feel nice. No matter how bad the rest of the winter was, Christmas Eve was the one night his mother decided everybody was entitled to be warm and cozy while they slept. It wasn't a feeling that often lasted past the holidays, but while it did, he took comfort in it, he never told anybody but it made him feel safe, secure, it made him feel like noting could get at him during that night.

This Christmas Eve, however, left John wondering what exactly the season meant to him. He'd always had a pretty good idea, but a couple weeks ago, his mother had taken him to the movie house. Everybody he knew had been there, there had been heavy talk about a new cartoon that was going to premiere, and everybody had gone to see what it was. It was a new one from MGM, a world where animals sing about peace on earth, goodwill to men, and an old squirrel explained to his grandchildren _what_ men were, because there weren't anymore left in the world. They'd all killed themselves off in a war many years ago, and it hadn't gone over little Johnny's head that the people who created the cartoon were referring to the Great War. Gas masks, bayonets, machine guns, fighter planes, it had all been there, not your typical cartoon whatsoever.

"_It was awful, it was terrible, why they fought and they fought and they fought, until it was only two of them left…and that, was the end of the last men on Earth."_

Those lines hung in his head and he'd swear they were giving him chills all up and down his body far more than his cold was. After a cartoon like that, who could even remember the movie that came after? When they'd left the movie house he'd asked his mother if it was possible, if mankind could ever completely destroy themselves in a war? She hadn't been as shaken up by the cartoon as he was, but she'd had a hard time answering his question all the same.

And now Ma was taking the top off a bottle of whiskey and pouring a small glass for him to drink. Medicine, she'd called it, well it made sense, anything that tasted terrible and you'd rather eat dirt than swallow _had_ to be good for you, _had_ to be medicine because otherwise there wasn't any explanation _why_ you'd drink it.

"Alright, Johnny, swallow this and go on to bed," she said as she held the glass out to him.

"I don't want it," he shook his head weakly.

She didn't look unsympathetic as she replied, "I know you don't want to, but you'll feel better in the morning if you do. It'll help you sleep."

What could you do? He took the glass, knowing what was to come, turned up his nose, closed his eyes and swallowed it all at once. His mouth was on fire all the way down his throat and clear on down to his stomach, he started kicking the covers off and kicked them down to the foot of the bed.

"I'm hot," he said as he felt his cheeks burning.

"No, you only _feel_ hot," his mother told him, "There's a difference." A minute later she pulled the covers back up on him and kissed him on the forehead, "Now you go on to sleep, your father will be home soon, and Santa ought to be here soon after that."

"Ma-a-a-a," he said in a borderline whining tone, "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"And why not?" she wanted to know.

He looked to her and said, "You know Santa's not real."

"I don't know _any_ such thing," she insisted, "I've never seen anything to prove that, and neither have you."

Even sick, Johnny wanted to argue, "Come on, Mom," he pushed himself up on his elbows, "How can he possibly visit 30 million homes in one night?"

"Who says he does?" she asked, "Just because he comes to _this_ house doesn't mean he goes to _everyone's_ houses. You take away the people who _don't_ celebrate Christmas, the people who aren't home _for_ Christmas, the people who have been bad all year and the people who set out bear traps for intruders, that cuts his work down immensely."

There was never any winning with his mother. Johnny rolled his eyes and laid back against the pillows. His mother set about tucking him in for the night and he felt a need to ask her again, "Ma…do you think there'll ever be a war that kills off everyone in the world?"

His mother smiled sadly as she stood hovered over him and she replied, "I hope not, Johnny." She kissed him again and said to him, "Merry Christmas, Johnny."

"Merry Christmas, Mom," he replied as he sank against the pillows.

He stayed awake and looked around the room after his mother had gone to bed. He wondered…he wondered just how determined mankind actually _was_ to invent new ways to kill one another. He pulled the covers up tighter and tried to go to sleep. The fire near him burnt bright, within a little while any and all conscious worries and fears he had, had melted away into the night. Once again he felt an unexplainable sensation of being safe where he was, he curled up under the covers and fell asleep, for the night without a care in the world. Tomorrow was Christmas and it would be a good day.

* * *

Three wars later, Hannibal still had questions about what lengths mankind was willing to go through in order to see who could kill more people than the other side. Of course today they knew so much more about that cold, raw potential than they had when he was a kid, today it was a lot easier to imagine because they'd neared that threshold more than once in the last few years.

He felt a small shiver run through his body. If you grew up in California, you knew cold in wintertime but you didn't know snow, because it didn't snow in California. The first time you spent Christmas in a cold climate where it _did_ snow, you realized you never knew what cold _was_ back in California.

The room that was pitch dark was also quiet as a tomb, he couldn't hear a sound out of any of his men. Here it was, Christmas Eve…no, by now it must be after midnight, now officially Christmas, and here they were in a small town in Illinois where it was snowing plenty outside. They'd come out on a mission to get done, and they had gotten it done with time to spare before Christmas. Unfortunately _not_ enough time to get back to Los Angeles for the holiday, especially since B.A. had insisted they weren't flying, and he was extremely vigilant this time to make sure they didn't slip him anything to knock him out. So they'd decided to stay through for the holiday. They'd had Face scam them a small house where they could stay until further notice, and at Murdock's insistence they'd even gotten a small tree and decorated it to give the place a somewhat festive atmosphere.

Outside the snow was falling and the temperature was about nine degrees, with wind chill probably 1- or worse. The heating system in the house hadn't been a terribly efficient one, and even all of B.A.'s mechanical knowhow hadn't been able to help much, so they'd dug out all the blankets kept in the closet and piled them on the two double beds in the house to keep warm during the night. It had taken a lot of persuasion on Hannibal's part to finally get B.A. to agree to let Murdock bunk with him. Hannibal had tried to get B.A. to see reason, he was the heaviest member of the Team, and Murdock was the scrawniest, therefore he could benefit the most from the body heat B.A. would give out during the night. No matter what strategy he tried, he didn't really get anywhere with B.A., except the Sergeant knew that Hannibal wasn't going to give up, so he finally did and agreed that Murdock could bunk with him, and Face would bunk with Hannibal.

Hannibal had had Face help him move their bed away from the window where the cold air was getting in through the cracks around the window frame, and they'd moved it over towards the door, so now Hannibal could look into the next room and see that the other bed's two occupants were in a dead sleep and likely wouldn't come out of it until morning. He was drawn out of his thoughts momentarily when he heard Face grumbling, he thought that the Lieutenant had woken up, but instead Face just rolled over in his sleep and pressed his head against Hannibal's shoulder.

Well, this hadn't been the way he'd _planned_ for them to spend Christmas, but it wasn't a bad second. At least the four of them were all together and _not_ spending it in a military prison, there was still a bright side to look on _even_ if they were buried under a foot of snow and woke up tomorrow morning to find polar bears and penguins out on the front lawn. He thought back to the Christmases of his youth, and he remembered. He had many fond memories of ripping into his presents after the agonizing suspense of the night before, that final wait, but…if he was honest with himself, what he _really_ remembered with a great fondness was those Christmas Eve nights, the many times he'd tried to stay awake all night, and failed. He remembered all the early years crammed into bed between his parents, the three of them huddled together to keep warm, and he remembered the later years sleeping out in the living room by the fire, also a good way to stay warm throughout the night.

And he also remembered that almost inexplicable feeling of security that had come with it; one thing he always remembered was how safe he felt as he drifted off to sleep. Whether it had been from the warmth of the fire and being buried under the covers, or if it had come from knowing his parents were _right there_, whether in the same bed or just a room away, he didn't know. What he _did_ know was he always felt that nothing could get to him on those cold winter nights, and though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, he found that he felt much the same way now, once again crammed together in bed with someone he knew he could trust, someone he had gotten _very_ close to over the years. These three men had become his _new_ family, and though he held the title of their leader, he felt as safe in their company as he had as a kid with his parents. Even for someone in his position, of his stature, it was a very comforting feeling.

So this Christmas wouldn't be an ideal one, what one was? At least they were out of the jungle now and back in their homeland, they were all together, they had a place to stay, and they'd have a good meal tomorrow, they'd sent Face out earlier in the day to pick up a turkey for Christmas dinner. He'd come back about with a hernia from carrying a 24-pounder, the biggest he could get. Hannibal would tend to _that_ tomorrow, for now, he was content to stay curled up under the covers and bask in this ever familiar feeling of comfort and safety. The way he was feeling now in the middle of the night in this dark house, he would swear that no MPs would come within 100 feet of them, and he hoped he was right, he suspected he was anyway.

Over the years, Christmas had come to mean many different things to Hannibal Smith. A large part of it all depended on your location, out in the jungle it didn't have anywhere near the same meaning it meant here in the middle of civilization. Some years all the bright flashy traditional displays created in an effort to boost the spirit held no water with you whatsoever, you could see through it all like a ghost. Some years you bought into the spirit of the whole thing, it just varied from year to year and depended on what was going on in your life at that time. This year…this had been a good one as far as he could remember.

Another familiar sensation was coming over Hannibal and he could feel himself slowly slipping off to sleep. As he struggled to remain conscious, he thought back to the book of Luke in the Bible, what today people referred to as 'The Christmas Story', one verse in particular stuck out in his head.

_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men._

Peace on earth, goodwill to men, a statement that had been in popular use since he was a kid. All too often the message was easy to lose, or it was too easy not to have any conviction in the words. It had been hard to keep any over the years, with the wars he'd lived through, and the things he had seen, but some things were everlasting, and he believed that those lovely little intangibles that were often overlooked, would hold supreme long after those wars were forgotten by time, and replaced with others, and likewise forgotten.

_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men._

"Amen," he quietly whispered just before sleep took him.

It was going to be a Merry Christmas after all.

A/N: The quote used for the cartoon mentioned, is from MGM's 1939 Christmastime anti-war cartoon, "Peace on Earth", which was animated by veterans of World War I who used personal experience for the combat scenes depicted in the cartoon.


End file.
